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I had my taxes done last night.
Annual events such as my tax consultation elicit from me an odd mix of aniticipation and melancholy. My tax consultation feels almost like a holiday (more Easter than Christmas, I guess, since my appointment doesn't fall on the same date every year) in that it signifies the passing of another year and, if I'm lucky, I get a little present in the form of a refund.
My accountant lives in my old neighborhood, the Upper East Side. I lived there for the first seven or eight years after I moved to New York (save the very first three or four months, when I was subletting a tiny apartment from a friend on the Upper West Side). In fact, he's located just two blocks south of my old place. And if he weren't, I'm not sure I'd have returned to the old neighborhood more than once or twice in the fifteen years I've been gone.
I had a roommate in that apartment, a buddy I've known since high school, and neither of us were terribly fond of the the place. Our apartment was hardly luxurious -- a one-bedroom (I slept in the "living" room") walk-up on the sixth floor -- and there was precious little to do in the surrounding area. When we had an evening free, we nearly always headed downtown or to the west side. So we jumped at the chance to leave when an offer was made (the new owner of the building had designs on taking it co-op and offered us a buy-out to vacate).
And I feel no fonder of the area now, when I make my annual tax season pilgrimage to the neighborhood, than I did then. I certainly have no desire to move back there. But I can't help but feel a little wistful, too, when reminded of the struggles we endured (and two young men new to the big city after growing up in the suburbia that is Oklahoma City are assured of struggles), of the lousy jobs we had then, the women we loved.
My roommate married the woman he loved while we lived there, though, sadly, that marriage didn't last terribly long. They're no longer in contact with each other.
My great love of that era left New York not long before we vacated that apartment to return to Seattle and then Japan. She's now an ordained Buddhist monk. We have very occasional contact (in fact, I owe her a letter), but mostly lead lives as separate as my buddy and his ex.
I arrived early at my accountant's office and so, with some time to kill, veered north to wander down my old block -- something I'd not done, I don't think, since we moved away fifteen years ago. It seemed hardly changed at all (though the avenues at either end of it have been developed extensively -- the area has much more to offer now than it did in our day). I peeked in the front door of our old building; the entryway was just as I remembered it, though with a fresher coat of paint and cleaner floors than when we'd lived there.
As I stood gazing in, wondering if, in fact, the landlord had found enough buyers to take the place co-op, a young woman came down the interior stairs and out the front door. As I stepped back to let her pass, I asked, "Would you mind telling me, is this a rental building or has it gone co-op?"
"It's all rentals," she said, a little suspicious at the question. I quickly explained that I'd lived there years before, that I'd taken a buy-out to leave the place and I'd always wondered if the landlord had managed to swing the deal he had in mind.
He hadn't, obviously.
I returned to my accountant's apartment, only to find that he was still with some other clients, a married couple who were roughly my age (though probably a few years younger). Introductions were made -- they seemed to be lovely people -- and I sat on a couch a few feet away and waited while they completed their consultation. Though I tried keep my focus on the weeks-old issue of The New Yorker I'd brought along, I couldn't help hearing some of what was said.
He was an investment banker and I'd guess she had a profession, too, though I didn't catch what it might be. They'd spent some portion of 2003 out of the country and harbored hopes that the money they'd earned while abroad might be taxed at a lower rate (I'm not sure it was, but again, I was trying not to listen). In the end, they were told that they would be receiving a refund of some seventeen thousand dollars. They seemed mildly disappointed.
Me, I worked two jobs for much of last year, and neither took me to London, Paris, Rome, or any of the other romantic, far-flung locales in which I imagined the banker and his wife had spent their working sojourn. At the end of my consultation, I learned that I would be receiving a refund of just over two hundred dollars. I was thrilled, given the fact that I've owed money to the government the past couple of years.
I will admit to feeling a certain amount of envy toward that banker and his wife. They seemed awfully happy together, and they obviously make a great deal of money. But then, there are so many others who would like to earn what I do -- and no doubt even a few who might envy my free and easy single lifestyle (little do they know).
So I can't complain. Or, at least, I shouldn't.